AFTER 8
by Neil Davies
Summary: As his incarnation draws to a close the 8th Doctor undergoes a deeply personal inner journey, drawing on the wisdom of the past so that he can embrace the future.


6

AFTER 8 

It was so cold, unbearably so as though his veins were filled with icy water pumped by a sluggish heart. Shivering uncontrollably the man hugged the sheet to him and clenched his teeth to stop them chattering. His thick curly hair was damp and the moisture was running down his neck, if only he could risk a hand to wipe it away but he had to keep the sheet over him.

To his right a long grey oblong box hummed monotonously, there was writing on it but the man's vision was out of focus so he couldn't tell what it was at first. Gradually though the dark blurs stretched into letters then words, and he was astounded by what they said. So surprised that he risked lifting his head. No this was impossible, he couldn't be back here surely why would he come and how?

Sitting up a little too quickly he was hit by a double punch of dizziness that almost threw him back down. With a gasp he had to grip the freezer like a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood, damn it was so cold it almost 'burned' his hand.

CHUNG YEE FROZEN MEATS, SAN FRANCISCO.

8 blinked at the words on the freezer, they were repeated across a sign on the wall. Making his tired muscles work he stood up, holding the grey sheet in place. Clothes, he needed some clothes, could there be any scattered around here? It didn't seem likely but if he didn't look he'd never find any, and with clothing his body might start to warm up.

Staggering away from the cold room he came to a narrow wooden door, beyond this was a room with carpeting and a radiator giving off some heat. Leaning his bare flesh against this he felt the warmth permeate and restore some circulation. The furniture was old and threadbare but a large wardrobe to one side gave him home, surely this would contain something he could use to clothe his nakedness even if the items didn't properly fit.

Who Chung Yee was he had no idea but clearly this was Chinatown, the same Chinatown he'd been in once before some time ago, not in terms of years but adventures undertaken, things done and people met.

Prizing the wardrobe doors open he let the sheet fall away as his delicate hands explored things on pegs, old-fashioned trousers, cotton shirts, and horsehair jackets. No he didn't really fancy any of those. Now wait a moment, there at the back, yes that seemed perfect.

Taking out the brown leather jacket he held it up for inspection, it appealed to him with its youth and freshness. Draping it over a chair he found other things, a cream silken shirt, dark pants, black lace up shoes and a belt. Somehow he felt these were things he hadn't worn before but that they appealed to him now. Quickly he donned them and the chill left his bones and muscles as though the garments had insulated him from whatever malaise he had experienced before.

Feeling inside the jacket pocket he found something, it was card and written on this was the name of a theatre just outside Chinatown in one of San Francisco's more upmarket districts. Not knowing why he felt drawn to this, instinctively realising that he must go to learn something important.

But the theatre was miles away, too far to walk so he'd need transport.

In the other pocket of the jacket was a mobile phone or cell phone as the American's called them, not that he was keen on American jargon but it was something Grace would say.

Grace – who was she?

End of the millennium, a party atmosphere, and a desperate search for a clock and an evil shape changing opponent – these were the memories conjured up by Grace's name.

The phone menu revealed the number of a taxi firm he thumbed the speed dial.

"Yes I'd like a cab to Chung Yee. My name? Well I'm usually known as, as 8."

The voice on the other end said a car would be with him in moments yet he had no sooner lowered the phone when the sound of a horn came from outside, my word that was quick.

It was blue coloured with white lettering, a flashing white lamp on top and you couldn't see inside through the windows. Climbing into the back 8 snuggled into a comfortable seat, soothed by the soft hum that enveloped him. This was very nice and somehow familiar. There were cute round patterns on the door insides like large embossed polo mints, and the same pattern was on the ceiling and the back of the front seats.

The dividing tinted glass was shoved aside as the driver revealed himself, a short man with longish dark brown hair and a pixie-like face with playful eyes. He wore a white hat and had question marks on each wing of his collar. In a soft Scottish accent he asked, "Where to sir?"

Blinking at him 8 opened his mouth to respond then took out the card instead this was regarded.

"Oh yes I know it well, have you there in a jiffy."

"Do I know you," 8 enquired?

"Everybody knows me sir," said the driver with an impish wink.

"I feel that you're a number to like me."

"Yes sir, I'm called 7." The cab was put into gear and began to move it was incredibly smooth, you could hardly tell it was even touching the road.

"Have you been here long," 8 asked beginning to feel more at one with himself?

"Since '99, I just dropped in not meaning to stay and have been here ever since. Life is like that don't you find."

8 didn't comment on that he wasn't too sure what life was like only that it confused him. "I've no idea what play is on at the theatre, do you have any idea?"

"Aye sir, they only ever put on the same play it's so popular it's been running since 1963."

Now that was unbelievable, why would anybody want to watch the same play for so long? Looking at the windows he found he couldn't see outside of the cab either, and that the doors didn't have any handles on the inside. Oddly 7 wasn't clutching a steering wheel, his hands were in his lap resting on a small umbrella. On the hexagonal dash an odd glass cylinder was rising and falling.

"I've never seen a taxi like this before, is it something new?"

7 smiled to him self and patted imaginary dust from a lapel, "Oh no sir it's been on the market for quite some time."

"I woke up to find myself in a frozen meat exporter, a man I don't even know and I've no idea how I got there."

"Did you have a wee accident before hand," the driver enquirer patting his knee rhythmically as if in tune with some unheard lullaby?

8 tried to think, where had he been an hour ago, two hours ago?

"I was in a hospital I think, somewhere medical at least and there was pain here in my throat, something stuck in my throat like a needle. I don't think I was undergoing treatment, at least it wasn't making me feel any better. There was a lot of pain and weakness, something was being drawn out of me."

Considering this 7 nodded once then waved at the undulating cylinder, this had slowed right down. "Almost there," he said. "Perhaps your memory will clear with the smell of the grease paint."

Yes thought 8 maybe it will, surely something can help me. "How much do I owe you?"

The little man shrugged as though this were of no consequence, "Have it on account." He said dreamily and the door opened automatically with a soft drone.

"Thank you very much," said 8. The night air washed over him bright and alive, he was on a long street full of theatres and cinemas with an opera house in the distance. The building directly ahead was dark and cavernous, old and imperious. Strange he'd never heard of a place called the Panopticon before, it reminded him of home wherever that was.

The doorman stood imposingly in his way, a burly man with thick blond curls and a chubby face with bright, imposing eyes and the manner of a natural bully.

"And where do you think you're going," he snapped in an overly dramatic voice? 8 knew he was facing a man with a high opinion of himself despite his lowly status.

"I have to go inside and see the play," 8 responded.

"You have a ticket of course," came the rather sarcastic request? With a frown 8 searched his pockets, but no he didn't have a ticket you had to order them in advance didn't you?

Offering a rather weak smile he shrugged apologetically, "Couldn't you just turn a blind eye, you know for old times sake?"

"My name is 6 not stupid, and there's no sentiment in show business, as I should know better than anyone." The podgy face held onto its scowl and the thickset body was an impassable barrier.

"I'm not asking for charity," 8 returned growing annoyed by the man's bellicose and unhelpful nature.

"That's good because charity begins at home, and you're a long way from there aren't you?"

Yes thought 8 I am and so are you, "How much does a ticket cost for cash?"

An eyebrow arched almost to the hairline and the lips curled into a sardonic grin.

"Money won't get you in here young man, admittance is by invitation only."

Glancing back at the taxi the newcomer saw 7 still sat there and received a hearty wave, could the little man help at all?

But it was a new face that intervened a slim blond man in a cricket jacket with a soft, boyish face and a rather engaging smile. Appearing behind 6 from the interior of the building he nudged the doorman aside to take in a deep, enthusiastic breath. "Permit me to help, I'm the manager."

6 glowered at the man but appeared to bite his tongue. Ignoring him the younger, slimmer employee studied 8 and offered a generous smile.

"You seem like the sort of chap who'd really appreciate what we're trying to achieve here, so why don't you take this."

The ticket was made of metal not paper, it was more like a badge and upon it was an elaborate, even heraldic seal designed around the letter R.

"My name is 5 and I like to be helpful where possible, unlike some."

Feeling a rush of gratitude 8 shook the man's slim hand, showed his ticket to the surly doorman and eased past him. He heard the doorman snarl, "That was a mistake."

To which the manage replied affably, "We shall see."

It was dark in the lobby but the soft strains of music could be heard somewhere ahead, a strange electronic symphony that was both attractive and discordant at the same time. To one side was a box office a bulging oval window that gave off a soft blue glow. Within this sat a man with a rather sour expression, his lugubrious face was topped by a mop of shaggy dark brown hair and his frock coat seemed about two sizes too large for him.

Pausing before the window 8 let him see the strange coin with its letter R motif, the man frowned and drummed his fingers across the surface of a penny whistle or was it a recorder in any case it was some sort of musical instrument.

"I see," said a gravelly voice that echoed inside the box with a mournful resonance, perhaps this man never left his tiny cubicle even to see the show.

"Am I too late," 8 enquired anxiously?

"Too late," the shabby little man responded with a touch of irony? "For this show one can never be too early or too late, the performance is perfectly synchronised with the arrival of the audience and actors."

Something occurred, "Are you an actor?" The clothing and mannerisms indicated it was possible, and the rather melodramatic voice was not that of a mere ticket inspector.

"Isn't everyone," came the dry response accompanied by a wistful smile that lit up the crumpled features.

"Do you want this ticket," 8 asked?

"Oh no you'd better keep it, I mean how else are you going to be able to pass it on?"

Now why would I be doing that the younger man mused just as the usher appeared through a pair of brandy coloured double doors, and what a startling sight he was with his bouffant of white curls, frilled sleeves and green velvet jacket. Boots clicking on the vinyl floor he gave a wide armed gesture of welcome and stood there in a somewhat camp, if not absurd posture.

"Dandy," snorted the little man in the box office and picked up his recorder, putting this to his lips he began to play a surprisingly optimistic little ditty.

"Don't be put off by that rather impecunious little fellow," said the usher. "2 has never forgiven me for replacing him, it happened under rather trying circumstances personally I think one should accept what life throws at one, don't you agree? Glad to hear it. Right old chap I'd better take you in."

Clearly the usher liked the sound of his own voice, in all ways he seemed a larger than life character and with a polite smile 8 simply followed him down a short passage to the stage area. The stage itself was huge but there was only one chair sat facing it, a single wooden seat with the word DOCTOR printed on the back. 8 frowned, what was going on here, where was the audience and who was this doctor?

"Are you sure this is the right place," he asked anxiously looking around for signs of other punters? "I mean there's nobody here."

"Who else would there be," the dandy enquired?

"But this is supposed to be a play isn't it? Plays are put on for people's entertainment."

The long bony face creased into a frown its pointed chin was worried by a single hand, "Oh dear we are in a quandary, aren't we?"

That was putting it mildly the younger man thought - try total confusion.

"Why am I alone," asked 8.

"What makes you think you're alone," came the probing and ironic reply?

"I don't see anyone else here."

"You've seen a great deal young man."

Upon the stage was a single prop a blue London police telephone box, it was familiar and yet it wasn't. It reminded 8 of something important in his life that he hadn't seen for a while something he wanted to get back but somehow knew he couldn't.

"What's that," he pointed?

"That's where the play takes place," said 3 with a twinkle in his eye.

"What – you mean inside a police box, but I won't be able to see anything from out here?"

"Then why don't you take your chair inside the police box," came the poignant suggestion.

It was a crazy idea on the surface yet it felt so right, so possible. Picking up the chair 8 found it lighter than it looked. He took it up onto the stage and as he did so a strange sensation overcame him, his mind began to clear away some of the paralysing fog of before. Looking back he saw 3, 2, 5, 6 and 7 stood in a line watching him and this time the usher, clerk, manager, doorman and driver took on a new aspect beyond their humble jobs. They had a dignity, a presence and a power that was overwhelmingly impressive and 8 felt that he had the same magnetism.

"Good luck," said 3 with a smile.

"He's going to need it," 2 grumbled.

"I think everything will turn out all right in the end," said the optimistic 5.

"Why, it didn't for some of us." 6 grumbled?

"You did all right in the end, slow start – big finish." 7 remarked cheekily.

8 looked at them, they were all so different and yet in some way they weren't.

"I know you don't I? I've met you before somewhere?"

They kept looking at him, none of them offering any comment as though his task was to work it out for himself. This he intended to do immediately and with a nod of acknowledgement he entered the police box, its tight confines embracing him as he bunched his shoulders.

And then there was space, a whole heap of it, a vast expanse in fact as the box opened out around him in every direction its walls flying away to give him all the room he needed. He stood there in a white room holding his chair its twin was to one side. Ahead of him hummed a hexagonal shape festooned with winking lights, a complex up thrust of technology, from it a hollow tube spanned the distance from console to ceiling.

Home he thought, I've come home again to where I belong. Placing the chair next to its cousin he walked up to the console and rested his palms on it. The thing purred at him like a contented cat, it actually hummed with the pleasure of the contact. He loved the feel of it, the conciseness of the design and the efficiency amidst the chaos.

I'm supposed to do something he thought but I'm not sure what it is yet, it has something to do with…

Then it struck him and going over to a full dress mirror in the corner he studied himself.

The reflection looking back was not his it belonged to a tall man of forty with very short-cropped hair, a different shaped face, green eyes and larger hands.

"Who are you," 8 asked?

"I'm you," said the man in the mirror. "Or rather I will be very soon."

"Am I the Doctor?"

"You were, but now you're just a reflection of the past."

8 frowned, "No you're the reflection." He said.

The new man smiled slowly, "Are you sure about that?"


End file.
